I am lying in bed in a neck brace watching Foxy Knoxy’s trial in Italy on the TV. How could I have lost it? My Fireman, Stripper and Carousel went without a hitch, I even managed a few Christina Aguilera’s but as I flicked my legs up into my favourite position, the one that always wows my friends, the one that you see in the picture, I got the fear, I told myself I was going to fall and fall I did, right on my head.

What a blinking idiot. I mean, I should know. I am always telling friends to fight the fear and do it anyway. Hours of listening to the genius that is Dr Wayne Dyer on Hay House Radio should have brainwashed me into realizing that the laws of attraction will bring you whatever you want once you are plugged into it – negative or positive. So by saying “I am going to fall”, I should hardly be surprised that ‘by the powers of Greyskull’ the universe would react to my thoughts and send me plummeting to my embarrassing end. Why don’t I ever listen to my own bloody advice? I am always telling the kids to think positively.

Sid and Nancy both started – around the age of two – to develop this human thing we call fear – and I worked out that it was coming from the reactions of people around them, especially me and Mr Was Right – so I changed the way I reacted. Now if Sid falls over I don’t crumple my brow and go “Oooooeeeyeowch”. I smile, lift him up and say , “Great skills stunt boy”. If Nancy gets stuck up a tree and thinks she can’t climb back down, I don’t run to save her, unless she really is in a life threatening situation. I get her to say “I can do it, I can do it” and both kids now say “I can do it, I can do it” and jump from heights that make me and other playground parents squirm while I wait at base camp smiling a big smile, albeit with gritted teeth.

But it’s all very well telling your kids to change their negatives to positives when you don’t do the same yourself. I write in my affirmations book: if things don’t work out the way I plan I won’t try and push them to work anymore, I will say “Sobeit” and submit to the universe’s grand plan. From now on when I swing my legs up on the pole I will say “I can do it, I can do it,” just as, if a friend loses their job, I now say congratulations, if someone dies I crack open the champagne, if someone’s relationship breaks up I now pip, “How exciting, a new one around the corner.” As Dr Wayne Dyer preaches, ” Change your thoughts, change your life.” Like pole dancing you could be surprised at how incredibly liberating you find it.

The Chinchillas have had more babies, Jan’s hot-footed it back to Sweden and J is playing hard to get. I check out Facebook to see if he’s on a trip too. Come on, you all do it! Aggh, he’s got messages from women with all kinds of strange profile pics. There’s one from Angel whose bottom is sticking out of bubble bath. I see another from a vixen with a stiletto heel unhooking her G-string and a lady with a Catwoman mask licking latex. This guy is clearly some goddang Pornmeister on sabbatical to fantasy land.

You can tell a lot about a person’s facebook profile so beware what you put out in the ether boys and girls. My friend Angie once lost a contract after someone saw her being rude about them on the social networking site. She had foolishly forgotten she had added them as a friend a few months before. I know we all spy on people these days but I still get freaked out on dates when the person knows my CV better than I do. I think, “I never told you that.” Even my 58yr old singing teacher, who, I might add, I would NEVER date, told me he knew everything about me through the Internet, although he rather creepily pretended he could read me like a book first. I gave up the lessons after that. My favourite story of Internet outing was told to me by my mate Allen who found out a guy was pissing him around with the sale of his house by googling him. After being told the guy could not complete (he was too busy mourning the death of his aunty) Allen found him in some online chat-room saying he was having a great day and about to head off to the pub for a few pints. A few minutes later Allen sent out a rocket of a chat message and within minutes the house sale was back on track and the guy had been publicly humiliated online.

Talking of rockets. I had better make like one as I am off to my first live pole-dancing performance in a few hours. I got into the art of tease to get rid of my cellulite. I also wanted to make my lower half move again after years in the sexual Gobi. Little did I know it would take me to another dimension with all sense of space and time disappearing after 10 minutes on the pole. Music does it to some people, art to others, well pole-dancing does it for me. Of course, I daren’t mention my hobby at Sid and Nancy’s catholic school; most of the Mums and Dads there really are too good for this world. When Sid blurted out “Mummy’s going pole dancing” to one Mum in the park the other day I had to tell a porky (thankfully I am a Buddhist if anything so I won’t need to head for the confession booth). I told her I do folk dancing in Ealing following recommendations from my Polish mum in law.

It’s a full moon tonight and, being a bit of a lunar loony, I know this is not only going to affect me but the audience as well. There’s a reason why Full Moon festivals came into being. Hardcore festival-heads know too well that we all have an urge to to bang a drum and wave a glow stick when the moon is in full glow. But feeling in more of a party mood is not the only side effect. We have problems sleeping, the police have more trouble dealing with anti-social behaviour and psychiatric hospitals report patients get that little bit more crazy when the moon is a balloon. Even the most avid disbeliever can see the Science bit. If the moon changes the way the sea works it must have some kind of effect on our own bodies of water.

I have a diary which charts the phases for me. Moon diary tells me that the waxing phase, from new moon to full moon, is the time that we are at our most outgoing and positive but as the moon then wanes we should put our more quiet and reflective heads on. It was Lovely Liz who got me into moon phases. One morning when the St John’s Wort and meditation was having about as much effect as a smile on a traffic warden, I did what I normally do when I feel low and trotted off to her flat to dump my troubles at her door.

“It’s the double moon, she said. It’s been happening to everyone.” No hint of a “Come on in, sit down, have a cuppa and tell me about the bastard,” oh no, let’s just get straight to the heart of the matter and blame the moon. In myth the Moon is said to rule things like feelings, intuition, fertility and creativity and nowadays even those who come up in hives at the mere mention of crystals, can appreciate there’s truth in what my friend says. Many winemakers, fishermen and hunters go by the lunar calendar and women’s cycles are synchronised with madame moon. So why don’t we pay more attention to it?

“Listening to feelings and hunches requires quiet time, something we rarely give ourselves these days, Abi,” sighs Liz.

Quiet time is something I value more than anything since I had children. Anyone who knows me well will have heard that I meditate for half an hour every day. They might even say, as they do to me, that it has made me a more relaxed person and seems to have halted the ageing process. But heading off into an altered state is not on my to do list today as I sashay off to wow a small crowd of full moon crazed punters with my fireman, carousel and trapeze moves. Power to the moon and power to the pole! Wish me luck tonight…

I am all for instilling a sense of charity in your kids, as David and Victoria Beckham say they are doing with theirs, but there is another example the Becks could set. Lady B gets given much of her fine wardrobe. She is one of the best clothes horses in town and a newly ordained designer to boot. But by appearing to hoover up shoes, clothes and bags like a hardened cocaine snorter she is giving the legions of fans who follow her such a picture of avid consumerism it could lead her less savvy followers down the road to serious debt.

Don’t get me wrong I love the poshest of the Spice’s. She wears the kind of shoes I would choose to twist around a pole. She was also born under my sun sign of Aries so is a fellow social tourettes sufferer, which makes for hilarious reading.

However she would seriously play the integrity card by flying over from the US and going shopping at the Selfridges Really Really Great Garage Sale this Sunday where Louise Redknapp, Trinny Woodall, Yasmin Le Bon and Denise Van Outen, amongst others, will be donating covetable items for sale and acting as stallholders to raise money for the charity Mothers4children. No-one would give Mrs Beckham gip for being snapped wearing something second hand. The last time she did an Oxfam photocall in 2006, she got a heap of easy publicity and sales of women’s clothes at Oxfam went through the roof. So it’s win win.

I am not one for telling people to do things I would not dream of doing myself, (apart from “taking a hike”) so, having heard charities are losing subscriptions hand over fist, I have upped my personal donations and tempered my own out of control clothes’ habit. I have swapped Zara for frock-swapping and Oxford St for Ebay. I keep my eye on dates at http://www.bigwardrobe.com/TheBigSwish/index.aspx.

I even frock-swap and swish online at http://www.swishing.co.uk and http://www.swishing.biz but do prefer parties to the online experience: the Internet has nothing on holding a glass of Chilean white in one hand and sifting through a rail of glorious bargains with the other. “Swishing parties are for all those women who want to combine glamour, environmental protection and frugality,” says Lucy Shea, founder of Swishing and director of Futerra Sustainability Communications on her site http://www.swishing.org , “Save money, save the planet, have a party.”

According to Shea the rules of the rail are simple:

1) Everyone must bring at least one item of quality clothing.
2) You have half an hour to browse before the swish opens.
3) No item may be claimed before the swish opens.
4) As soon as the swish is declared open, everyone may take what they want.
5) And, lest we forget, no scratching, spitting or fighting.”

Swishing not only keeps you off the high street, it is good for your money kharma. Most parties raise money for charity and some even give you a percentage of the proceeds from the clothes you donate. The last frock swap I participated in at a friend’s house took 25% off each item sold for Multiple Sclerosis and we pocketed the rest. Despite spending most of my booty the same night I was proud to get rid of my most heinous fashion mistakes, chuffed I hadn’t added to the carbon count and sweatshop labour and felt like a child with a secret pack of chewing gum as I walked out of the door, fingering the small wad of notes in my pocket.

Who knows, with a little public pressure, maybe we could convince the lady of labels to alternate between her clothes line and vintage. Could I be so bold as to suggest she take the swishing trend to LA? Forget her new forays into fashion design, big up vintage in Beverley Hills and Mrs Beckham really could change the world.

Mr Was Right is around this morning looking super-grumpy and super-tired which explains why the kids are trying desperately to get his attention. “Dad, Dad, can you do this?” says Sid. “Hold your willy in one hand, point your gun in the air and go ‘whooooo, whooooo’.” Mr Was Right attempts a smile, “Sid. That is just what every man would like to do when he wakes up. I’ll definitely try it tomorrow morning.”

He gets our two dressed before chucking a man’s idea of kids’ breakfast down them. 2 Kit Kats, 2 Fruit Shoots and a shared pack of Twiglets later they head off into the misty morning waved off by Mama Tight, who, dressed rather decadently in silk pjs, quietly thanks the God of Separation she won’t have to deal with the additive and sugar-fuelled fireworks going off in the Audi in approximately 1 minute. Screeeeeeeeech…..I shut the door knowing Sid is getting the fourth degree for calling his Dad a “buttcrack” or such like.  

This morning was a toughie. Mr Was Right dropped the bombshell I’ve been dreading for the last 2 months. He told me to – GET A BLOODY JOB. And, well, I kind of had to agree with him. The blog is hardly paying for itself, the kids are at school most of the day and I am starting to feel RSI nerve twinges – thanks to my social media addiction. I need to get out more. Text goes out.

Work is fast becoming a necessity. Any inspired suggestions?

Brrrrr Forget anything child-related, seeing how you lost Jamie the last time I asked you to watch him for 5 minutes in Ikea;)) x Vag

Brrr Given up on the dating site idea then? Xx Janey

Brrrrr With your heels and Dominatrix disposition, you’d make a great door bitch, Ms Tight. Oh and what happened to the pole-dancing? x G

I knew I shouldn’t have told G about the lessons I have been doing on and off for the past 6 months and I know what you are thinking. You need a job. You can poledance. Go figure? Believe me, I’ve tossed that idea around but, while I’ve got nothing against poledancers, doing it for a living would jar with my Goddess principles. Dancing provocatively in front of leery blokes can’t do much for your self-esteem and I haven’t got much of that left these days. It would also probably put me off the male of the species which isn’t really the best position to be in when you are signing up with dating agencies. Besides, who wants a 30 something when there are all those beautiful teenage Croatians, Latvians and Hungarians doing their do in the clubs?

I had better add a few normal jobs to my CV. Not sure former model, kiss n tell blogger, tarot reader, twitterer, jolly good friend, reiki practitioner, pole dancing practitioner and rambunctious raconteur will go down too well in the current job marketplace. Or would it? Can you think of a career that embraces all my finer qualities? Please be kind.